


what you make of me

by SapphireQueen



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Angst and Porn, Charles is angry but wants it just as bad, Emotionally Crippled Erik, Erik is touched starved, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, like soooooooooo much angst, mentions of Raven/Azazel, mostly Charles' view on things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2241960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SapphireQueen/pseuds/SapphireQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Erik was in prison for ten years. Ten years of loneliness and isolation.<br/>When Charles, Pietro and Logan break him out, they fly off to Paris, where Charles and him have a brief discussion. Or, more than just a discussion.<br/>-<br/>A year passes and the school is slowly rebuilding itself when Charles gets a mysterious black journal in his front porch and he tries not to think of whatever it could be and just damn well opens it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what you make of me

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of a borrowed headcannon from TheLetterAesc and you can find more info on it here: http://theletteraesc.tumblr.com/post/93405900080/headcanon-for-what-erik-did-thought-of-during-his-years
> 
> ALSO: Comments will be hugely appreciated, thank you!! :D

Charles had developed this habit.

When the incredible pressure of the world would often fall on this shoulders and, even before Hank had developed the serum, when all of the voices, the pleads, the insufferable wails of scream and agony from everybody flooded his brain and would make his entire body shake with the horrifying feeling of instability and uselessness, he would twirl his drink.

He would swish around the amber liquid around and around, creating a small storm within the glass tumbler, the ice clanking _– clink, clink, clink—_ against the glass, creating a sort of calming melody to his ears. Hank would never comment on it, guessing it would be better to leave the professor with what little peace he could find, and on the airplane Logan would complain about it occasionally, as Erik’s blank, ocean green eyes stared back at him and Charles did everything in his power to look elsewhere— _anywhere_ —but him because he knew; if he ever stared long enough into those desperately searching eyes, he’d be lost again.

And now here he sat, in the balcony of his hotel room, sitting in a chair that is way too hard and cold; he’s looking at the French sky, twirling the scotch around and trying desperately hard _not_ to think. But nostalgia is a cruel mistress and the melancholy that follows in one so violently sweeping that is nearly drowns him. He remembers the first time he came to this hotel; it was during his third year at Oxford and he had decided to take a semester abroad, tagging Raven along with him. Then there was the second time, when he and Erik came into the city in search of a fellow mutant… this was the first time they had made love. A faint feel of the memory of skin on skin, the lingering feelings of acceptance and love and _oh God, Erik_ —he nearly chokes on his drink. He sets the glass down the near coffee table and pushes every thought away.

He hears a knock on the glass door. “Charles?”

Speak of the devil. Charles doesn’t bother turning around, keeping his eyes locked on the sky, he leans back and slumps a bit in his seat. “Yes?”

“May I?” Erik asks and Charles wants to throw him off the balcony, down the flights and into the ground, he wants him to scream, to cry, to hurt like he does… but he doesn’t do any of that. They had somewhat made up in the airplane so it would be somewhat cruel to deny him now.

“Sure,” He says, grabbing the whisky bottle that was on the ground beside him. He offers it to Erik. “Want some?”

“Please,” He answers, picking another tumbler from the coffee table. He sits near Charles, dragging the chair so it makes that awful sound and takes a quick drink from his glass. “Charles, I—”

And suddenly, it’s too much. He can’t breathe, everything around Charles is closing in on him because he is alone with Erik for the first time in _years_ and _oh my god it’s been so long, so damned long_. “What do you want, Erik?”

Erik stiffens, like he doesn’t even know the answer to that question. “I wanted to talk to you,” He says and Charles notices the way his voice goes deeper, his brows furrowing and that’s a tiny, stupid, incredibly _Erik_ thing to do and it sends a shiver down his spine. “Seeing as how neither of your security dogs are here right now, figured I should try.”

Charles laughs; a bitter sound between the far away sounds of Paris. He stands up, needing to as physically far away from Erik as possible because he doesn’t trust himself right now and he’s had a couple of glasses—a full bottle if he’s honest—of whisky in him and right now, anything could happen. He leans his elbows on the railing, staring at him. “Spit it out, then.”

He hears Erik sigh, he gulps down more of his whisky. He doesn’t stand up, though, which Charles internally thinks. He twirls the tumbler, fumbling it around his hands, echoing Charles previous motion. “I’ve missed you.”

And just like that, a dead, cackling, _painful_ silence falls on them. It falls because it’s the first time either of them had admitted anything like that and Charles feels his heartbeat quicken and it _terrifies_ him. He looks directly into Erik’s eyes for the first time in what feels like an eternity and he’s torn between laughing bitterly or crying, opening his soul once more. He feels the corners of his eyes tear up and almost violently wipes it away with the palm of his hand before it has a chance to fall. He grits his teeth because Charles Xavier is collapsing on the inside right now and he needs a way to deal with everything right now but everything is _failing_ him.

Erik stands up and walks towards him, near enough that Charles feels the heat that Erik’s body gives off and _oh God take me, touch me, kiss me, everything_ , _please. I’m yours, I never stopped being yours._ “Charles, I have been alone for ten years… I haven’t seen the sun, felt the ground below me or even have even breathed natural air,” He says, moving his hands, hovering them over Charles forearms. “And all I’m going to ask you is to please let me _touch_ you.”

 _I don’t trust myself enough to do that,_ He thinks. _I don’t trust myself because if you touch I am going to do something that I am positive that I will regret later and I don’t want that, I don’t need that._ But instead of that, which he was sure was the right to say, he says: “Yes.”

And it ruins him; it completely undoes him because the moment Erik lays his hands on Charles arms with a care so delicate it leaves goose bumps on Charles’ skin. Erik looks at every part of him like he wants do devour Charles, years of loneliness and isolation had made him touch-starved so he runs his hands down the length of Charles’ forearms to inspect in great detail. His eyes swallow him whole; desperate to memorize every curve, every inch that was _Charles_.

“Erik,” Charles breaths out, hating how his voice sounds husked and broken. Erik hasn’t touched anything other than his arms but Charles still feels so overwhelmed. “ _Please_ ,”

Erik’s not sure of what exactly Charles is asking for, but he moves his hands up Charles arms and snake them around his back, hugging— _clutching_ —Charles tight against his chest and _fuck fuck fuck,_ Charles is crying now and Erik clutches him tighter. Charles yanks his head away from Erik’s chest and does the worst possible thing he could ever do in this moment in time.

He kisses him.

It’s not a romantic kiss, it’s not a passionate kiss—it’s not even a violent kiss. It’s a kiss that leaves them both panting out of _desperation_ , a kiss that requires Charles to take Erik’s face between his hands and to shut his eyes as hard as he can because if this is a dream, he doesn’t want to be woken up, he can’t. A clash of tongues and teeth and utter recklessness, Erik’s body smashes Charles’ against the railing, a dull pain digging into his spine but he doesn’t care, he can’t concentrate.

 “ _Charles_ ,” Erik’s voice hisses as he digs his head into the hollow of Charles’ neck and starts to kiss, to bite, to suck, all in greedy tones. Charles moans, running his hands through Erik’s hair with one hand, the other running down Erik’s spine.

What follows is one of the slowest, most passionate, most heartfelt yet shattering moments in Charles’ life and one he so gravely wishes he could forget… but it’s carved into iron and heat into his brain. Charles smaller body starts pushing Erik’s, whose seemed to have lost composure, into the room, on the bed and he’s crawling on top of him because he _can’t_ handle it, he _needs_ this.

Charles takes his shirt off and proceeds to nearly rip open Erik’s, not bothering to take it off completely because he needs to feel Erik’s skin against his own. Erik fumbles around with Charles belt and zipper, yanking down his pants so quickly it makes Charles lean backward, kicks them off and pounce back on Erik. He starts taking Erik’s down as well, he thrusts his hips up to make it easier for Charles but that movement was electrifying because he could feel Erik’s hard cock against him and he salivates and the memory of it, of so many nights with Erik. When they’re finally both completely naked, they stop and stare at each other. “ _Charles_ ,”

“Hush,” Charles says, leaning forward to the bedside table and grabbing the nearest tube of lubricant possible. “No more talking, just fuck me.” He says because he can’t deal with the surge of emotions and feelings that come along with Erik Lehnsherr right now. “Make me scream.” He sits down on Erik’s lap and grinds against him, hearing Erik hiss of pleasure, throwing his head back.

Charles takes three lubed fingers and starts opening himself up, not bothering to hide the gasps and screams that escape him occasionally. He stares at Erik while he does, watching as his face looks completely wrecked, hair wild, eyes hooded with lust, his lower being bitten and there’s a sick pleasure that twists in Charles stomach knowing that _he’s_ the one making him this, kicking him down to his most vulnerable.

“Fuck,” He hears Erik moan as he takes his other hand and pours lube on Erik’s completely erect cock and starts stroking it, not much grace and dignity to it, but at the moment, Erik doesn’t seem to care. Deciding both of them are completely soaked in lubricant, Charles positions himself hovering over Erik, his hands using Erik’s shoulders for support. He starts by pressuring the tip against him and _oh God it’s so big, so fulfilling_ and before Charles knows it, he’s completely sat down on Erik’s lap, taking everything in in one painful stride and _fuck it hurts, it hurts so much but it’s so good, fuck fuck fuck._ His thoughts grow wild as he starts getting used to Erik inside of him again, moving his hips in what at first appeared to be slow, tentative thrusts and have slowly increased so each one is harder, faster than the last.

“Charles,” Erik moans, digging his fingers on Charles’ ass, urging him to go faster. “Charles, fuck, I’m not—I’m not going to—”

“I know, me neither.” He responds, letting Erik angle himself and push into him and hit that exact spot. “Fuck, _right there_.” Erik growls and sinks deeper into Charles, managing to hit that spot repeatedly over and over and over and fucking over again and it’s making Charles see stars, and everything’s dizzy, everything’s wonderful and vast and too much at once and yet not enough at all.

“Charles, fuck, fuck, _Charles_.” Erik moans, completely lost in everything that is Charles, all he can see, hear, taste and feel is _CharlesCharlesCharles_. “So long, too damn long.”

Charles moans are obscene and everyone can probably hear him on this floor but he doesn’t care. “Erik… oh, fuck, _Erik_!” He keeps screaming because he’s feeling too much and he doesn’t want too. All he wants to feel is the bittersweet pain of Erik burying himself into his ass, the way Erik’s hands clutch him, afraid to let him go. He knows they’re not going to last, he knows that both of them have been out of practice for a while, so it doesn’t surprise him when he comes, splattering completely on Erik’s chest. Still thrusting on Charles spent body, he comes quickly after, shuddering in a soft grunt of release and Charles can’t believe how much he _needed_ this.

… and if the way Erik cries when he slumps down next to Charles, immediately falling asleep on what had to be his first mattress in years, was any indication, Erik needed him just as well.

 

* * *

 

_ One Year Later _

“Scott!” Alex exclaims, running down the hall behind his younger brother. “It’s bath time, we need to go!”

“ _No_!” The little one screams, not having a care in the world as to whether the other students see him running down the hall naked. Alex, for his entire tough exterior, has the weakest soft spot for his little brother in the world and he can’t seem to force him. Charles laughs.

It’s been a year since Magneto has let the world know about the existence of mutants and Raven has shown them that there are ways to better oneself. Ever since the Washington incident, more and more parents have slowly contacted Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters for a safe facility for their children to properly learn how to access and control their gifts and it makes Charles heart heal little by little each day.

Hank and Alex had come back to help him restart the school, not long after that they had cleaned up the place and made it suitable again for children to inhabit it. Charles had made sure to provide secure rooms for everyone, stock up the kitchen with all that is needed, and basically make this a flourish home like it once was. They had all divided their chores, Alex teaching control and combat techniques, Hank teaching science and math and Charles sometimes took over English and Philosophy, mostly reserved for the older students.

Raven had also come back, taking a year to discover herself. She had reconciled with Charles over a night of a few beers and a couple of tears shed. She brought with her a small blue boy whom she had named Kurt and Charles was taken aback to see Raven as a mother, but seeing her coo him and be gentle and sweet with him had brought all of his doubts down.

“His father was Azazel,” She says with a twinge of pain inflicted. “You know, we had plans. We wanted to move, to raise Kurt away from so many of the hurt the world will cause him… but he’ll be safe here. I know it,” She leaned over and taken Charles hand in hers. “Because this is his family.”

Charles grew teary eyed and had welcomed them with open arms. It had seemed that little Kurt had inherited his father’s teleporting abilities and he had a incredible control over them. He attended the classes with the other students, including to Raven’s self-confidence courses and occasionally History.

He had tried to remember the last time he had felt this happy, and it had been so long ago. Long ago when his only true solace was liquor… he had quit immediately when the school started receiving children. He only occasionally drank a glass of wine or champagne when at school fundings and social events. His school was slowly starting building itself back up, Raven was back in his life and the future seemed bright and ahead.

Until he received a rather peculiar phone call.

It had been a Saturday morning and these days were the ones where Charles gifted upon himself the now almost privileged duty of sleeping in, so he was content when he would wake up to find the mansion mostly empty. On Saturdays, some of the children returned to their parents for the weekend or where taken out to the town for a movie and a day off, so Charles wheeled down the `halls to the sounds of quiet. Then the phone rang, violently and loud as thunder that had shaken Charles out of his bliss.

“Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters, this is Xavier speaking.” He answered, in case it was any of the parents or possibly other parents to sign their children up there.

What greeted him was a voice he hadn’t heard in years. “Charles? Good evening, I need to speak with you for a moment.” Moira answered, sending a cold chill don’t his back.

She wasn’t supposed to remember, she wasn’t supposed to know about any of this. How was she contacting him? How did she remember? “Yes?”

“My name is Moira MacTaggert, I work for the CIA.” She spoke and the fact that she introduced herself must have meant she didn’t exactly remember everything, so he eases a bit. “We’re working on investigating and possibly finding the mutant terrorist, fugitive and outlaw Erik Lehnsherr, did you know him?”

If Charles were drunk he would have laughed bitterly and barked out a ‘ _Little good did that do me’_ or he would have just outright refused to cooperate, but he had children to take care now for and he’ll be damned if he lets them be harmed by the government, so he decides to cooperate out of the shear hope that it’ll benefit him. “Yes, I knew him.”

Even thinking of him still hurt sometimes, but he had too _. For the children, dammit._ “We figured. No matter, Dr. Xavier. You and your school are in no danger,” He sighs in relief. “However, we did find a leather-bound journal in his cell during his imprisonment in Washington. Apparently, it was a assigned by a psychologist to help Lehnsherr deal with isolation and he was allowed to records his thoughts. We have read it and have classified it as harmless, seeing as there is no written clues, harms or conspiracies that could put the country in danger,” She takes a deep breath and Charles hears what appears to be the rough sounding edges of papers. “You are mentioned a lot in it and I feel obligated to send this to you, just in case. It feels impersonal to still have it under CIA vigilance when it poses no use to us. A package should be arriving in a few days soon.”

A cold sweat drops down Charles neck, trying not to think of the fact that his name appears a lot in that journal. “Thank you, Agent MacTaggert, I will be sure to receive this package soon.”

“Have a good day,” And with that, she hung up.

 

* * *

 

The package had arrived on Thursday and the box sat open in Charles study, on top of the desk that was currently cluttered with papers to grade.

Raven and the others had seen it, but none had commented on it, leaving it best to the professor to see how he would he deal with it, but they all knew what it was.

Saturday had arrived and Charles found himself alone in the mansion, the silence not as comforting as the last time. Now the silence mocked him, it urged him to open that journal and read everything, anything that had his name on it.

 _“You are mentioned, a lot.”_ Moira’s voice had said, but Charles still couldn’t quite grasp the severity that Erik had mentioned him _a lot_ apparently, that Charles was in his private thoughts just as much as he was on his.

Wheeling into the study and sealing the doors shut, ( _although, really, what kind of help was that in an empty house_ ) and grabs the journal. He sits by the nearest window, the nice feel of the sun caressing his skin. He takes a deep breath and opens it at the first page. He notices there is no name in the first one; no type of title or mention of possession to indicate this had been his. He flips the next page where he sees something scribbled in perfect penmanship, but it was in black crayon, the more delicate structure looking quite childish and silly in crayon.

 _Of course, pens have metal springs. Pencils have metal ferrules._ Charles says, figuring that it’s probably the most logical explanation. He traces some of the words with his fingers before he begins reading.

 

> _ Day One, Year Five _
> 
> _Dr. Morris has prescribed that I have this journal to record my thoughts on. To help me deal with the possible isolation I will be dealing with for the next ten years. At first, I thought of it useless, I thought: ‘Do these men not know I have been through worse? That I was Shaw’s plaything until I managed to escape.’ It has been sitting on the corner of the room for a year, for I refused to participate in this mundane and inane activity… but according to the guards, who believe that I can’t hear them through this glass, I am well into my fifth year and the repercussions of loneliness and sorrow are getting to me. Especially with the nightmares. I can’t seem to write them on paper. These will haunt me always. They are sins of my past that I must carry into my future._

That journal entry ended abruptly, a couple of lines being crossed of so it was difficult to read the words. Charles felt his chest clench.

In all his anger, in all his fury, he had forgotten that Erik was incarcerated for _ten years_. Ten years of isolation does a lot to a person, it could drive them to the brink of insanity, to be alone with your thoughts and with yourself. Charles could hardly handle having Hank around, let alone being _completely on your own_.

He flipped through the pages, looking around for other entries, some were mundane, just describing his day, he found sometimes small drawings, creative means to keep his sanity at bay. He found one of Erik’s mother, or at least Erik could remember of her. He found another of Raven in her natural form, the scales drawn to a perfect angle, but the one that took him to a grinding halt was when he saw _himself_ staring back at him. The most noticeable accent was the eyes, drawn with a precision so admirable that it must have taken Erik days to make them perfect. He flips the page to find more written on the back.

 

> _ Day 245, Year Six _
> 
> _None of the guards dare approach me. They see me with this notebook in hand, they see me when I meditate, trying to keep everything that could still be considered sane and stable inside, they see me as I wipe my face when the pressure is too much, they see me staring back, as if I could unlock their small, pathetic human minds with just a look. Fools. None of them approach me to take this away, which makes me feel more comfortable because there is something been meaning to write about but had been too afraid of myself to do it justice._   
>  _If I could take back one day of my life, it would be the day I shot Charles Xavier._   
>  _Charles Xavier had been the man to show me a better way; he showed me how to hone my powers and how to make a better man out of me. I am what he made of me._   
>  _I took away his sister, she might have walked willingly into my path, but the blame will fall on me, I am sure. I understand why, of course. Raven was all Charles had, and for her to walk away like that… I couldn’t even imagine._   
>  _And Charles… how could I ever explain him? He was a light in world, that light at the end of a long, dark tunnel… I am not a good man, I am aware of that, but Charles… Charles is. I would give anything for one more chance to look at him, to stare into his eyes ~~, to feel his skin against mine for one more time and~~ for him to know that I truly am sorry. But I am positive that will not be the case… ~~I wonder how many people he’s been with since my departure. I’ve felt so alone sometimes, wanting to taste him one last time. I am terrified of forgetting what his face looks like. The right shade of blue of his eyes. The number of freckles across his skin, the way he unravels and unwinds as he comes, looking at the world as if it were made of stars and light.The way his voice would say my name and it would have been the most beautiful thing in the world and the current reality would have zoned out until it was just him and I on our own little space and I—~~ No, I am no fool. I realize nothing will ever be the same.  I am someone who has lost everything… I am a threat. There’s a reason why I’m trapped here. I am a danger to others but mostly to myself._

Charles stops reading, he stops reading and he takes the bottle of whisky he hasn’t touched in a while and he opens it and pours some on the nearest tumbler he can find because _Oh God, Erik, no._ It all feels to real, he feels like he’s imposing on something deeply personal because _Fuck_ how was he supposed to react to all of this? To the news that Erik had been thinking as much of him as he had of Erik? And in so many ways… Charles looks down at the part where it’s all crossed out; he feels a pang of guilt drown him.

In his weaker moments, at the start of his slow dissension to madness and pain, when Hank just started to inject the serum in him, the first thing Charles went to do besides getting incredibly drunk was look for a prostitute. He hadn’t been touched in so long and he needed to feel something for the first time in a while, even if that meant anger or shame. He had fucked the rather attractive woman in such a ferocity that was foreign to him, he had never considered himself an angry lover, but yet he did. When he was angry, he was rather violent and had fucked them mercilessly, going a bit too hard or way too fast… when he wanted to feel as shameful and dirty as he had perceived himself to be, he would pay them to insert objects into him, usually using a sex toy of some sort… make them say awful things to him as he grind down the object inserted in his ass and cry and actually enjoy it like a fucking _psychopath_.

He chugs the tumbler down, trying to push all of these images away. All of these memories of a past self he was _desperately_ trying to erase. He was a goddamn professor again, he needed to be an example. He needed to _wake the fuck up._ He snaps his attention away from his thoughts and stares at the black journal again.

There is much more to Erik than he himself knew, and Charles had turned his back on him. He takes it into his hands and stares _. I am going to make things right, Erik._ He thinks, running a hand down on the cover. _Just because someone stumbles and loses their way, doesn’t mean they’re lost forever._


End file.
